Powerless, he watched his hand act out as people on the train a**umed he planned the pinching, slaps, incessant snapping--even though he swore it did these things itself. He snared it in a sling but, trapped, it only scratched, undoing all the careful wraps and knots. And when freed, the hand embarra**ed even worse.
Divorce was hard. It broke that man, and as he left the courthouse, on the street, a woman screamed: his hand had wormed its way beneath her dress--her face aghast, like blooming blood or flower print he tore away.
Past the swelling mob, his hand yanked him shuffling, fingers wriggling; cast out: every part disbanded. Stranger. Now it was stranger. Life had turned stranger. They call him stranger. He is the stranger.
He woke beneath an overpa**, that hand pointing frantically. Along the path, while bu*tons popped (hand stripped him nude), he went laughing--sometimes weeping--clenching fist. It's said he found peace knowing all was gone, or lapsed to madness, murdering. And some find dripping hand prints pointing the way there.